Page 22 of Forced & Knocked-Up Bratva Bride

I sat at the end of the table, resplendent in a charcoal suit, the collar of my undershirt crisp, hands clean. I’d been quiet this whole time, listening, my glass of vodka untouched. My fingers drummed a slow, rhythmic tap against the table’s surface.

Noticing my silence, the others turned to face me, suspicion and confusion etched in their gazes. I could almosthear their thoughts—they believed that I was waiting out of caution, and that was why I hadn’t ordered an attack on the Romanos yet.

Fools.

I wasn’t waiting because I was afraid. No. I was waiting because it was the most strategic thing to do. Striking too soon would dull the impact. I knew that. But they didn’t. My silence was not weakness, nor was it hesitation. It was calculation.

Finally, I spoke, my voice low and even. “You talk about cutting off Dante’s arms.” A twisted smirk lined a corner of my lips. “But I want his head.”

They exchanged intrigued glances, their wicked grins widening.

My eyes flickered toward the map for a moment, then to the glass of untouched vodka in front of me.

They wanted war. But to me, this was more than war. It was personal.

My jaw tightened at the thought of the one who’d managed to snake her way into my heart.

Alessia.MyAlessia.

For weeks now, she’d been living rent-free in my head after invading me like a fever. Sweet. Dangerous. Fucking addictive. All day, every day, she was all that I could think of, all that occupied my mind. I’d tasted her, explored her body, and now, I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else laying their filthy hands on her. She was mine. Mine alone.

Alessia thought she had escaped me. She believed that crawling through vents and bleeding in the dark signified some sort of freedom. She was mistaken. Alessia was far from being free of me; she was merely running in circles, biding her time for me to tighten the snare. And I would.

I’d warned her of what would happen should she run away from me, yet she chose to challenge me. Now, she and herentire family had my full attention. It didn’t matter where in the world she was hiding. I’d hunt her down, ruin her, break her fiery spirit inch by inch until she regretted ever defying me.

I’d marked her already, and soon, she would remember who she belonged to. Then, I would claim what was mine.

Chapter 17 – Alessia

The soft amber light of dawn filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting a golden sheen over the modest cottage interior. The wooden floor creaked beneath my bare feet as I stood at the large window, one hand clutching the rim of a steaming teacup, while the other rested gently over the swell of my belly.

The sweet scent of milk and honey wafted through the air, teasing my senses as I gazed out the window. The golden fields outside stretched across the horizon, the morning breeze rustling leaves and wild grass. A few birds cut lazy arcs through the pale sky, their squeals mingling with the distant hum of a tractor swallowed by the vastness of the Montana countryside.

For over seven months, this place had been my home, my safe haven, even though it was nothing like Chicago. In fact, it was the exact opposite. No honking cars, no flickering neon lights, and most importantly, no shadows lurking in alleyways. This place was quiet, peaceful, and I was already in love with the serenity and calm it provided.

Here, things were very different from what I knew—what I was used to. As opposed to the fast-paced Chicago life, the Montana countryside dripped like honey: slow, quiet, and undisturbed. This was the perfect place to lay low, to find myself and think about the next phase of my life. In this forgotten corner of the world, my secrets could sleep and my wounds could heal. For now, at least.

I took a sip from my steaming teacup, then exhaled, the fog of my breath kissing the cold windowpane. I wrapped the cardigan tighter around my shoulder, eyes dropping to my swollen belly.

Seven months. That was how long it had been since I left Chicago—since I left everyone and everything behind. A faint smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I placed a palm over the curve of my belly. I felt it again, the tiny kick fluttering beneath my hand, more nudge than strike. My smile widened.

Two weeks ago, the doctor had told me it was a boy, but I’d suspected long before that. Little Nik was in my belly—a constant reminder that I couldn’t ever truly run away from him. No matter how hard I tried, how well I hid, his shadow would always follow me wherever I went. I’d built a life here—safe and simple—yet the past still lingered like smoke in the rafters. Nikita Tarasov seemed to echo in every heartbeat and in every breath.

And now, in my son.

My smile faltered by a whisper at the realization that I couldn’t erase Nikita Tarasov from myself. The man was carved into my very existence, as permanent as blood.

When my son was born, each time I’d look at him, I’d see his father, the man who ruined my life.

I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath, and pressed my forehead against the glass. The morning light wrapped around me like a blanket, the steam from my teacup warm against my face.

As safe as I was here, I knew it was only for the time being because nothing stayed buried forever.

Not love.

Not hate.

And definitely not a name like Nikita Tarasov.

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